Too Much Love Will Kill You
by Houie
Summary: AziraphaleCrowley slash. Set after Good Omens. An incident involving Heaven and Hell helps two agents realize the depth of their relationship, the upsides of free will and the complications thereof, and the ineffability of it all. In Progress. Eventual R.


Disclaimer: Good Omens is owned by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. They deserve all the love in the world for it, and naturally, no harm is meant. I don't claim any rights to any characters, situations, or Capital Letters used in said book.  
  
Too Much Love Will Kill You  
  
By Houie  
  
There are many things about supernatural creatures that humans tend to forget, or just ignore. That cherubs, for example, are not cute and chubby winged infants. Satan himself was of cherubim stock, regardless of anything you may have heard. Then again, Satan was a demon, and humanity most particularly liked to forget that things like demons existed, let alone bother to grasp the intricacies of demonhood. It is of note, however, that while there are multiple Hierarchies of angels, there are really only two sorts of demons (this being the first of the major areas of forgetfulness). One sort being those Fallen Angels that sided with Satan in the first war against Him and His People. In general, these lot are the real bad sort. Not the type of demon you would want to meet in a dark alley even if you were another demon. Especially if you were another demon. There were more of these, and all of them were to be avoided as much as possible. He didn't much like their attitude, it seems, and sent each and every one of them plummeting to the Earth.  
  
The other sort, not being Fallen angels in the classic sense, are less numerous and usually hold the positions that nobody else would have chosen for themselves. Such as being surface-bound operatives. These demons are usually members of the last three Choirs of angels (collectively known as Corporeal, although it is generally agreed that this is an ugly word). They were richly immersed in the creation of the Earth and humanity, love humans by nature, and most importantly, were not born with the Servile Fear Of God. In fact, they didn't really have any direct commune with Him at all*. Because of this they were very prone to doubting their True Purpose.  
  
For an angel to doubt his (or its) True Purpose is very unfortunate indeed. Heaven was founded on blind obedience, and if one were to doubt his True Purpose they would develop free will. Of course, it's not called free will up there. Up there it's called Dissonance. When an angel loses it's Resonance it interrupts the celestial harmony, colloquially known as the Symphony, which causes the angel to not so much Fall from His grace as to Saunter Vaguely Downwards.  
  
The second major area of human forgetfulness being that demons do in fact have feelings beyond Servile Fear and selflessness, and this was one of the major reasons they were so very good at what they did. Currently the demon Crowley was sitting on the perfectly coifed bed of his catalog-photo apartment, pulling on his shoe. He'd been there for more than 72 hours beforehand, and only got up because he wanted to get a shower. The Apocalypse had just been averted (or temporarily postponed, depending upon the ineffability of it all), and he was personally celebrating by engaging in marathons of Earthly indulgence. He finished wiggling his foot into the leather when the telephone rang  
  
"Oldscratch & Kelly, Moneylenders," said the demon, expecting it.  
  
"That was not funny," muttered Aziraphale.  
  
Crowley thought it was. He pressed a satisfied smirk into the phone. He hadn't talked to the angel in a few weeks, they had been attempting to lie as low as possible. There was hope that, both of them being rather low-ranking operatives and his being a suspected Bumbling Mediocrity aside, their involvement in the entire situation would be looked over and eventually ignored. Luckily it didn't seem to matter who had done what, but rather that something had been done and the mess had to be cleaned up as quickly and quietly as possible, especially on God's part, who preferred that His People work in mysterious ways. Crowley slid his other foot into it's shoe.  
  
"Is there a particular occasion that I should thank for your call?" Crowley dripped into the receiver.  
  
"I thought we ought to perhaps get some lunch together at the Ritz," Aziraphale said and proceeded to announce a long list of the myriad reasons why a lunch date would be beneficial to both of them, among these being that he had managed to come across some of the books that he had lost in The Incident (as they had taken to calling it, deserving of the capital letters), and that today they were serving quail eggs in a jellied tomato aspic, which he was very fond of and was very pretty besides. Crowley agreed. Aziraphale was, in fact, very fond of tomato aspic. He pondered making a note that he had not heard one reason to benefit him yet, but decided against it. He had once pointed out, when Aziraphale was sampling his dessert, that gluttony was one of the Seven Deadly Sins, only to receive a haughty sniff in return. My People created humanity, he had lectured, and it only stands that I should generously appreciate their creations in turn.  
  
"So it's agreed, then?" Crowley cut Aziraphale off.  
  
"I suppose so," said Aziraphale happily. He was looking forward to his quail eggs.  
  
"Give me five minutes. The traffic is quite light today," Crowley said, and hung the telephone up. Aziraphale frowned. It should take much longer than five minutes to get there.  
  
Twelve minutes later Crowley peeled the Bentley into the curb outside of Aziraphale's small shop. Aziraphale was waiting for him impatiently, but his expression was relieved. Crowley simpered at him as innocently as possible. Demons were, by nature, not men of their words.  
  
"You didn't cause any accidents, did you?"  
  
Crowley scoffed at the very thought. Aziraphale was quite suspicious of his driving recently, after an incident a month ago. He had purposefully hit a pigeon on the road, thinking that he was actually doing everyone a favor. The bird had exploded upon impact with the Bentley's back tire, showering the windshield of the Volkswagen behind him and causing a multiple-car pileup. He was quite proud of it all, actually. The angel relaxed slowly, and after a few moments, they arrived at their destination, where they sat at their table which was never occupied, received their meals which were never late, and ordered their wine which was never off. Aziraphale always made a show of swirling it anyway. He dug into his quail eggs in jellied tomato aspic with relish.  
  
"Do you think that they've forgotten abou-"  
  
Aziraphale held up a hand to silence Crowley. He finished the last bits of his meal. Crowley polished off the last of the asti spumante in his glass and ordered another bottle. Aziraphale motioned for him to continue. There was no use in ruining perfectly good food with talk about Apocalypses (Apocalypsi? Apocaloose?) and Ineffable Plans, he noted guiltily.  
  
"I mean, I don't suppose that we're out of the woods yet?"  
  
"Well, I wouldn't say we're out of the woods. You never know whether or not you're out of the woods, according to the plan. It is ineffable, after all," Aziraphale paused, "But I daresay that He is much too busy to worry about the likes of a Principality."  
  
Crowley was satisfied with this answer. The one good thing about angels was that you could trust them to be frank and honest.  
  
"Everybody's busy with some business in France at the moment, anyway," amended Aziraphale. Two black eyebrows shot up. Crowley hadn't heard anything about business in France. Then again, he had been sleeping.  
  
"What might that be?" He murmured, and took a bite of his fruit trifle.  
  
Aziraphale tipped his glass to his lips and poured the last of it down his throat. He refilled his glass and emptied it again. This worried Crowley. It was clear that the angel was going in for reinforcement before beginning.  
  
"I don't know why you're asking me about it. Certainly your People have heard something about it by now, unless you're not nearly as adept as you've led me to believe," Aziraphale said. Crowley allowed him his small victory. "I'm not quite sure on the details. I haven't had much contact recently, for obvious reasons, but it would appear that it has something to do with those Unspeakable sorts."  
  
"Do you mean to implicate My People in this, angel?" Crowley eyed him dubiously and motioned for the check to be brought.  
  
"Heavens no, not your People. Not My People either," Aziraphale looked sufficiently flustered.  
  
"You mean the Grigori, then?"  
  
Aziraphale blanched, and put a finger to his lips. Of course, Crowley knew just as well that the folks Up There didn't like that kind of language.  
  
"And why is this a problem that I should be concerned about?" Crowley said, looking at Aziraphale questioningly over the rim of his sunglasses. "I mean, it's not as if I've got anything to worry about, right?"  
  
Aziraphale paid a bored-looking waiter and gave him his sincerest compliments before giving the demon a vague look. Crowley knit his eyebrows together and stared after the retreating waiter.  
  
"Forget that I mentioned it, dear," said Aziraphale, pulling his jacket over his shoulders. "There is an Evangelist speaking in town tonight. I would imagine we should both be prepared for it."  
  
All thoughts about the conversation fled Crowley's mind and he smiled an oily smile. Neither one of the could claim to be very fond of Evangelists.  
  
Crowley glowered into the darkness as he shot down a narrow country road in his Bentley. He was on the outskirts of London headed down a road that he wasn't sure had a name, even though humans had a fetish for naming things. It wouldn't have mattered if it did particularly, anyway. The Bentley was fully capable of finding its way home, like a loyal dog. It frequently had to. When the demon needed to think, he went out for a drive. He had been driving and thinking for a good three hours now since he and Aziraphale had finished at the Evangelist's rabble. He was certain that everyone there left very inspired, one way or another. Reverend Jeremy Burger had claimed he could heal people. He couldn't heal himself when his robes had suddenly caught on fire. Everybody in the room would claim it was from a candle, but they all knew he wasn't anywhere near one. They would either think of the man as a fraud, which was good for the angel, or think of God's healing as a fraud, which was just as good for the demon. It worked out for both of them in the end. Aziraphale had congratulated him.  
  
He would have congratulated himself, but he was too busy thinking.  
  
Sometimes when you thought about something far too hard and for far too long, you stopped being able to. It would fold in upon it's own ponderousness. Crowley had always thought it was some sort of pressure-release system for your mind. He reached a hand down and turned on the tape deck in the dash. He knew it would be Queen, and it didn't matter to him at this point. It would fill up the white noise in his head that was left now.  
  
I want it all, crooned Freddie Mercury, and I want it now.   
  
"Bugger," Crowley swore under his breath. The Hard-Thunk Thought of Aziraphale came back miraculously. Ironic that, he duly noted. The angel had been entirely too antsy for his liking when they were dining earlier. It was true that he'd been trying to get a rise out of Aziraphale. This wasn't anything completely waltzing away from the norm, and waltzing required a partner, besides (even if they were both fairly inept dancers). Aziraphale hadn't exactly risen to the bait. It was more of a flash boil, if you wanted to be precise about it. He was entirely too excited about something so simple as business that by rights shouldn't involve either of them directly.   
  
Also, Crowley had an intense dislike of being dismissed. He preferred to be the dismisser, and to be dismissed by an angel was even worse. If it hadn't been this particular angel doing the dismissing he might have even thought it was rude and done something suitably nasty about it. Instead, he was hurtling down a country lane in a classic car with no headlights on, listening to The Best Of Queen, and thinking about Aziraphale. He was going to have a long word with his opposite number the next day. Right now, he just wanted to head home and take a very long nap. His front wheel jerked, and he shot a look at the nondescript lump in his rear-view mirror. He had hit a rabbit, and he wasn't even trying. It was small solace. 


End file.
